§ § § -- February 9, 1999
It was a tranquil Tuesday morning when the tall man with close-cropped white hair stepped off the charter and descended the ramp. He was dressed in an ordinary black business suit and had a hard, almost cruel face that at the moment bore a small, mean, covetous smile. His eyes were a sharp, icy blue, and there seemed to be the hint of a perpetual scowl on his face. He barely noticed the other passengers, all happy tourists bearing suitcases and ready for a good time, brushing past him.
Without warning he reached out and snagged a native girl as she was hurrying by. "Excuse me," he said in a chilly British accent. "Where is the main house?"
The girl eyed him, leaning perceptibly away from him. "Follow that lane," she said, "and you'll come out onto the Ring Road—the paved coastal road. Turn right and keep going till you see a dirt lane on your left. Follow that and it'll take you to the main house."
"Thank you," he said and released her, smiling to himself in amusement when she broke into an all-out run. He took his time, ambling along in the direction the native girl had pointed out to him, taking in the beautiful tropical scenery as he walked. It was a good half hour before he rounded the bend in the lane and got his first glimpse of the main house, which actually stopped him in his tracks. It was a far cry from his own ultra-modern glass-festooned dwelling, all Victorian elegance and ornate scrolled woodwork. Seems P.Q. hasn't done so badly for himself, then, he mused, studying the house. He always did have fussy taste, though. Still, if he could afford to have this place built for himself… He shook his head and climbed the steps, crossing the porch and knocking smartly on the door.
When it opened, he was roundly surprised to see his own son standing there. "Well, well, well," Rogan said lazily, eyeing him. "So you decided to come then, eh?"
"If I'd known you were here, perhaps I'd have arrived sooner," the older man said caustically. "Let me in, Rogan, or have you moved in?"
"I'm merely helping with some of the business here," Rogan said calmly, stepping back to give his father access. "I think you need to speak with the lady of the house."
"The who?" Father and son stopped in the foyer as the former beheld Leslie, sitting behind the desk writing checks to pay bills. She looked up and stared at the newcomer, her eyes narrowing slightly, her body stiffening in reflex.
"This is my father," Rogan told her, "Mr. H.R. Roarke. And this, Da, is Miss Leslie Hamilton—your cousin's daughter."
"Bah," spat H.R. Roarke, scowling. "You aren't my cousin's daughter by a long shot. Who precisely are you?"
"I am his daughter," Leslie said coldly, "even if I am adopted."
The white-haired man peered at her, then shrugged. "Adopted. Hah. Well, so this is P.Q.'s domain, is it? And just where is he?"
"Who's P.Q.?" Leslie asked.
"My cousin," came the reply. "That's what we used to call him when he was a little boy…though that was eons ago. Where is he?"
"Indisposed," said Leslie shortly. "What exactly do you want?"
Rogan cleared his throat. "Before the temperature in here drops any further, maybe we'd better take a bit of a stroll, Da. Leslie's busy, and her father isn't up to any visitors."
"So where have you been?" the older man asked his son once they'd cleared the porch of the main house. "Cal told me right before he departed that he and Harry saw you on the island, just when that wretched Paola dropped in and died on us."
"I hope you buried her at least," Rogan said dryly.
His father ignored this. "Why didn't you come to see me?"
"Why should I?" Rogan countered.
"Filial duty, perhaps?" the father offered pointedly.
"It would be a duty and nothing more," Rogan said.
His father rolled his eyes. "I never quite understood you anyway, Rogan, but this really takes the cake. I haven't seen you in too many years; then you have the audacity to set foot on my island and leave without visiting me? Tell me what was behind that!"
Rogan said calmly, "I almost did, Da, but I met Cal and Harry first…and they clued me in on the most recent events. I found it very interesting that your copycat business tanked and you were obligated to release Cal and Harry from whatever peculiar imprisonment you forced upon them. I liked them right enough—personable blokes, they were. But that Ariel positively spooks me. What is she, your replacement for Mum?"
"Leave Ariel out of this," his father ordered. "So Harry and Cal 'explained' things to you, did they? Leave it to them to put their own spin on the story. Frankly, I can't say I'm sorry that the fantasy business folded…though Ariel put up a great fuss. For some reason she enjoyed it. But the problem is, running that island like that turned out to be a singular drag. I simply hated the work orders…no picking and choosing…"
Rogan grinned sardonically and remarked, "Translation: your customers were hauled in off the street by force and sent to your island, whether they wanted to go or not—whereas here, people queue up to have their fantasies granted. And that's what really got to you, Da, wasn't it?"
His father gave him a long, sour stare before demanding, "Is there MacNabb in your mum's family tree, boy? You've a very frightening clarity of perception. I merely wanted a retreat, but one would think I was being punished for some transgression. The whole venture lasted not even six months. Possibly that was all the punishment Cal and Harry needed, or else—"
"Or else nobody wanted fantasies with gruesome endings forced upon them by a dour man who took pleasure in tormenting his guests," Rogan broke in. "If you needed to know why I don't visit, there's your answer. You've changed since I first met you—at one time, you were happy, and then you invented this rivalry with your cousin."
"P.Q. always had everything handed to him!" the older man barked resentfully. "He had that smarmy old-world charm that used to attract every woman in sight, made everyone love him without question…and how he ever got into this position, I just don't understand. His overly polite manner, especially to people who are rude to him, just infuriates me. He won't raise his voice, he won't lose his temper, he never runs out of patience…or those damned good-guy white suits." Rogan snickered, earning a glare from his father. "Only one thing I ever bested him in—childbearing."
Rogan stopped dead on the trail and gaped at his father with a look of exaggerated horror. "Are you telling me that it was really you and not Mum who carried me in your gut for nine months? Someone had better tell the media about the world's first pregnant man."
"I'd backhand you like a tennis ball if it wouldn't shatter the dignified image I've been cultivating," his father growled disgustedly. "You've much too smart a mouth on you. What I meant is that you are my blood offspring, and it can be proven. All P.Q. seems to have been able to manage is the adoption of an ordinary human girl. What good is she to him? When he kicks off, there's no way this island can continue to operate as Fantasy Island under her direction. She needs powers that she'll never have and can't hope to learn about, much less acquire. Have to wonder if P.Q. was unable to father a child if he had to resort to adoption to perpetuate his line."
"A fine one you are, Da, to scorn adoption," Rogan fired back. "What about Miranda? Or have you disowned her lately?" That got him another glare from his father, but no rebuttal, and Rogan shook his head. "You've sunk to pettiness and common jealousy, and you seem to have lost your conscience. I think you came here with the hope that your cousin will die and you'll have the dubious privilege of watching it happen. You know, Da, you think you've got your secrets…but I know about the cure you insist on withholding. Do you like death so much that you prefer to let an already dwindling population be decimated all the further by the bone-eating disease? Our people's numbers are growing ever fewer on this odd, abused little planet. You seemed happy enough to watch Paola die…"
"She was too far gone for the cure to save her," snapped his father.
"Be that as it may—there are surely others with the disease, including your cousin. Apparently, your idea of ending this alleged rivalry is to outlive him. You claim to be outraged that I never visit you. Well, let me give you something to think about, Da. Either you give us the cure, or you'll never see me again as long as either of us lives…and that's a beastly long time." Rogan strode away in the direction of Julie's B&B without looking back, while his father stared angrily after him.